


Will I Find You When the Night is Over

by hedgerowhag



Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rough Sex, Stranded, Strangers, Supernatural Elements, Unsafe Sex, kylux adjacent, this fic is very difficult to tag without spoiling it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: “It wasn’t very smart to be standing out there,” Clyde mutters, looking ahead at the murk of the storm.The man laughs, “No shit.” He pushes off the hood of his flimsy black jacket coated in snow. “It wasn’t smart of me either to try and catch a ride with a stranger. But thank you for stopping.”





	Will I Find You When the Night is Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youdidnotseeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youdidnotseeme/gifts).



> The title is from ‘when the night is over’ by lord horun
> 
> Sorry for the vague tags but i honestly dont want to give the plot away even tho its prolly obvious

Winter wipes the earth clean. It makes West Virginia into another world, some state that Clyde doesn’t recognise. There are snow drifts high enough to cover a car, to hide the fences, and the roofs of cabins on the hills.

Clyde sees Coal Mountain, sitting between the hills as a large gauge in the valley. But it could be any other town; the snow has washed all the roads the same. What might have been a well used road looks barely like a trail and the flat plane of the mine is no different from the valley of a creak.

The sun had melted the snow that morning, coating the drifts with a crust of ice. Clyde drove out by the roads that had been cleared, following the tracks of cars. He stopped when he saw a frost laced sign pointing up toward a trail between the firs from a pocket of ground on the side of the road.

The cold stung his face as he stepped out of the car, prickling red on his skin. There were no footsteps on the path of crisp snow but the dotting of water dripping from the icicles. Pulling the collar of his sweater underneath the goose feather coat to his nose, he followed the trail.

Clyde had been in a dumb stupor during fall. Every day, with the exception of his off days, were waking up, going to work, and then back to sleep again. He had been watching a nature documentary with Mellie at her house about snow leopards, following the perils of a mother catching a mountain goat, when she suggested that he should take a trip somewhere. After a half-awake argument she compromised from Iceland to the Twin Falls resort, just slightly to the east. They made a candy-drunk agreement and shook on it.

It’s January. Winter has set its hands into the West Virginia ground. It’s stronger than last year, like a Christmas miracle postcard; From hill to hill the land is covered in snow, with small houses dotted in between with smoke trailing up.

Clyde sneezes, breaking the frost creeping up on his stubble. The snow is touching his knees when he pushes his feet through the drifts to reach the crest of the hill where the trail ends with a paint marked pole.

The clouds have coated the sky, sitting dark on the horizon. But it’s quiet; even the wild fowl wont raise its voice. Clyde wipes the frost on his eyelashes with his good hand. He can feel the frozen currents the wind brings burning his face, coming in like the humid air before the weather crosses the desert.

The undergrowth shakes as the snow drops in clots from the spruce and fir. Some has already sunk through Clyde’s boot laces, melting into the soles of his socks. The hood of his coat is cinched on the nose of his cap. It’s quiet, so unbelievably quiet. But the sky is grey between the branches of the pine canopy and its urging him not to stand too long in the silence.

Clyde slips down the path, seeing the white strip of the road between the trees. He has three more days of the vacation, he has spoken to no one but a driver asking for directions and the girl at the checkout scanning his groceries that were mostly pastries and tins of cocoa. He wants the last days to be at the window of the cabin he rented, finally getting to the book he packed.

The snow creaks behind Clyde in the woods. He glances over his shoulder without hindering, but glances back again and falters. Someone is walking off the trail between the trees with wide, slow steps. The figure is dressed in an unzipped black coat and jeans half shoved into boots. Their black lank hair is hanging forward with pale ears poking through in an oddly familiar way. Clyde can’t see the person’s face; they are looking up at the incline of the hill.  
Clyde slips forward on the path, but doesn’t look away despite feeling unsteady – like his blood is rushing in his temples with the change of the pressure. Black spots flee in Clyde’s sight as he watches the person walk away. They seem lost; their attention keeps twitching from place to place, never quite looking down at their feet as their trip on the shrubs and rotting timber under the snow.

Clyde’s mouth shifts to call out, but he is too far to be heard. Running toward the stranger might frighten them. He looks away. The car is just several feet down the path. The unease settles in Clyde’s stomach like a river stone, dragging down as he walks toward the car.

The snow drifts have covered the cracks and bumps in the road, including the dip between the trail’s end and the gravel. Clyde chokes on his tongue when his foot drops through the snow. He loses his footing and falls without resistance.

There is snow under Clyde’s coat and sweater, melting on his bare skin, but the burn of the cold soon becomes numb. He slips down further as he tries to push himself from the ground and flops back onto the snow, arms spread out and legs bent underneath him, the hood and cap sloping over his eyes.

The clouds drift in a grey film, like dirty water on concrete. The fir branches hanging over the road shake as the wind carries underneath them. Clyde watches the cotton puffs of snow waltz down onto his car where their spidery hands print themselves onto the glass. He breathes in and drags himself out from the ground.

Clyde is shuddering behind the steering wheel as he waits for the heating to warm up. Snow is sweeping down with the wind as water puddles around Clyde’s feet on the mat.

Frozen gravel and snow crackle under the wheels as Clyde turns the car onto the road. The SUV is new, with a set of winter tires and clean seats. It’s a luxury Clyde allowed himself, promising that he won’t let anyone convince him to ruin it by driving through a store front or something or other.

The crackling of the snow echoes in the valley as the road drops down the hill. The wind shield wipers are squeaking across the glass, pushing aside the snow. Clyde tries the radio, skipping through the static. Voices briefly glitch through the humming as the view of the road becomes white noise. He should have checked the weather forecast before taking the drive. But the previous evening was all blue skies, not like the orange and red Clyde had heard people talk about as a storm warning.

The static pops and Clyde turns down the radio to the drone of the car’s engine. There is a map on the passenger seat, folded to the parameters of the hills with the resort cabins. Clyde glances between its lines and the road disappearing in the snow as he drops the speed.

There is a fork in the road. Clyde pulls the map onto his lap as the car rolls to a stop. It should be a straight run from the narrow path in the hills onto the main tarmac road. It’s several miles of gravel between the trees, of pine and fir until the blaring of the trucks comes over the canopies.

Clyde sighs and drops his hands onto his knees. The snow is pattering on the glass, closing his view of the roads every time to the windshield wipers pause. He could wait for a passing car, ask them for directions, but who would drive in this storm. Besides, it’s getting dark quickly.

The indicator clicks left and Clyde almost laughs, switching off the ticking as the car tires struggle to find traction on the snow.

Despite the storm picking up strength, the wind pushing against the side of the car, Clyde does not push the speed. He watches through the gaps of clarity as the windscreen wipers pass over the glass, clearing a view of the the milky haze sitting over the forest covering the hills.

There are no curves in the road, no offshoots of gravel paths. Clyde feels like he is moving through sleep, drowning in molasses with limbs that don’t entirely feel his own anymore. His eyes are aching as they try to keep focus on the road.

A splotch of darkness separates from the line of trees, wobbling as it passes over the snow drifts. Arms like willow branches lift into the air as the shape climbs onto the road.

Clyde considers pressing on the brakes. He can see the shape of a snowed over car off to the side, just a lump of white. The person is waving, but not stepping into the road. He can drive past easily.

The stranger’s face catches the light of the headlamps, a pale gasp on the canvas of black clothing. Their eyes are fixed on Clyde, meeting him head on.

The snow is blanketing the car as it stops. The figure is a shadow struggling toward the vehicle. Clyde can see an ungloved hand reaching out and pressing to the window, breaking away the frost and snow.

Paranoia is a sour taste behind Clyde’s tongue, like bile and spit bubbling in his throat. He almost doesn’t roll down the window. But then the snowflakes are falling into the car and melting on his hand as he sees the cold burned face of a ginger haired man in a flimsy black wind breaker leaning in toward the cracked open window to make himself heard.

“Would you mind giving me a lift?” the man heaves. He is trying to hold down the hood of his jacket against the wind as the snow sticks to his wiry shoulders. “My car’s fucked.”

There is red around the man’s eyes and his lips are cracked sore. He stumbles as the storm shoves him against the car and he catches himself on the frame of the window, wincing through the bite of the cold.

Clyde unlocks the doors as he says, “‘Course. Don’t freeze yourself to death out there.”

The man rushes around the front of the car. The lights drench him, washing his skin translucent white and the wet hair on his face amber.

Clyde takes the map off the seat and folds it before the snow touches the paper. The wind pushes in the stranger and the storm is shut out with the gasp of the door and the flicker of the interiors light. The man is shuddering as he rubs his spasming shoulders, bouncing his feet as though in a jog.

Clyde turns up the heating and looks down at his hands in his lap while he waits for the man to steady his breathing.

“It wasn’t very smart to be standing out there,” Clyde mutters, looking ahead at the murk of the storm.

The man laughs, “No shit.” He pushes off the hood of his flimsy black jacket coated in snow. He offers a hand to Clyde. It’s stiff with cold. “It wasn’t smart of me either to try and catch a ride with a stranger. But thank you for stopping,” he says as he locks his fingers around Clyde’s palm. “I am Armitage.”

“Clyde.” He drops his hands onto the steering wheel. The snow groans as the car moves, rolling past the lump of the abandoned vehicle. “Where do you need a ride to, Armitage?”

Clyde bites on the inside of his mouth as he listens to the man breathing warm air into his cupped hands, still jittering in the seat. They are in the twilight of the storm, lit by the faint blue evening light and the ambiance of the headlamps reflected by the snow.

“Any point of civilisation would be fine.”

“I’m headed to the cabins,” Clyde tells him, “but I won’t mind taking a detour if I find a way onto the main road.”

“Toward Twin Falls?”

“‘Es-Sir.”

“Then I suppose we are headed in the same direction.”

The car jerks as a wheel scrapes over uneven ground under the snow. Armitage slams into the passenger door and curses as he pulls on the seatbelt. His boots squeak on the rubber mat, askew in their numb state.

Clyde tries the radio again after driving for several minutes. It gives him static and pops of nonsense and he switches it off as a migraine starts pressing on his head, pushing on the backs of his eyes while he stares at the oncoming blur of the storm.

“Not the best time of the year to visit West Virginia,” Armitage mutters into the damp collar of his coat.

Clyde smiles and replies, “I s’ppose it’s a sight in summer if you don’t mind the gnats and mosquitos.”

The ground on the left of the road begins to slope, falling down into a valley lost in the fog of the snow. The frozen telephone wires swing above in the faint light.

“Are you not from here?” Armitage asks.

“Decided that I could use a vacation. Somewhere quite where I can clear my head. You?”

There is a muffled snort as Armitage rubs his hands down his face. “Came here for an anniversary. Shouldn’t have made the same mistake twice.”

“An anniversary? Hope it hasn’t ended in an argument—“

“Quite late for that.” The fabric rustles as Armitage leans back against the seat.

Clyde keeps his eyes fixed on the faint line of the road as the wheels struggle to turn on its sloping curve. The telephone wires are shaking with the tree canopy as the storm buffets the side of the valley.

“Came here several years ago with my partner. We were bored of the city and chose the most unlikely place for a vacation. On the fourth night, we argued until he left the house.”

The pines are stroked ashen by the headlamps before glimpsing into the dark. Clyde doesn’t talk, squeezing back into the shadows.

“He drove out, taking the car fuck knows to what point of the woods. Of course, there was a storm. Over a foot of snow dropped with the temperature.” Armitage is scratching a line with his nail on the window frame. “It was hours before I snapped and ran out in what I could find.”

“Did you find him?” Clyde mutters. There is cold sweat on the steering wheel.

“Yes. His car had swerved off the road. He must have tried to push it out, but then got onto the back seat and fell asleep. I couldn’t feel the cold and thought he was only sleeping. I sat in the car beside him, waiting for the storm to pass. The police must have arrived after that. I don’t remember—“ Armitage jerks forward with the car when Clyde presses on the brakes, like he is a slack doll held in place by the seatbelt. “There isn’t much to remember.”

“I’m sorry.” Clyde bites on his lip; he doesn’t know what he is meant to say to that. What did his relatives and friends say after his parents passing? It didn’t matter, it all went over his head.

Armitage heaves in a wet breath. His arms are crossed over his chest.

They don’t speak as the road drops back into the woods from the valley. The pine and hazel branches hang low onto the road, heavy with the snow as they swing over the passing car. Clyde’s eyes are starting to ache again as he sinks back into the seat; the evening light is gone, leaving a haze of blue that peers through the storm clouds.

Snow has covered the side windows and it’s too dark to see what follows the car. With the heating on, it’s almost comfortable, in the silence, in the muted shadows of winter with a storm outside.

Armitage shifts in his seat, elbow on the window frame and head tilted back. He shifts again, dropping his head onto the headrest. Clyde takes a glance across at Armitage, then once again. It takes him more effort to look back at the road; Armitage is staring at him, eyes lit up by the reflection of the headlamps. Clyde isn’t sure if it’s the glow that makes the pupil’s of Armitage’s eyes pale, like the black is clouded with smoke.

The reflected light combs through the damp auburn hair, roughly pushed back by the hand pressed against his temple. He is chewing on the inside of his cheek as Clyde stares ahead at the distant point of darkness where snow and light disappear.

“You look just like my husband,” Clyde hears Armitage say. “If you shaved that beard, I would hardly tell the two of you apart.”

“I—Um—“ Clyde swallows. “Thank you?”

In the light scattering through the car, from the corner of his eye, Clyde sees fingertips reach out and touch the knuckles of his hand as he changes gears. He feels the echo of the cold burned skin as he snatches back his hand and grips the steering wheel.

In the dark, Armitage brings his fingertips to his lips and smiles tightly. His eyes are glazed, like he is so deep in his mind he is barely seeing.

Clyde wonders if he should have turned his hand and taken Armitage’s, tried to soothe the frost sore knuckles. Clyde wants to take Armitage’s pale hands and pull his gloves onto them, hold them between his own and warm his skin with his breath. Or maybe he would feel colder, with one carbon fibre hand covering his.

The night’s sky opens as the clotted snow drops slowly onto the road. Clyde can see how heavy the trees have become with the drooping icicles and coats of snow. He slows the car to look at the drifts sculpted on the sides of the road that glitter in the light of the headlamps.

“You should see the snow storms that pass through New York,” sighs through Armitage’s murmur. “The city becomes like a movie set. There is no one on the streets, even the big roads that are so stuffed with cars and people crossing you don’t even realise there are borders.”

As the car slows down until it’s only rolling with the incline, Clyde turns to Armitage. The other man isn’t paying attention to him.

“It’s like ash is falling onto the city and everyone is gone with the apocalypse. Dead under the derbies or ran away. It’s not like this. Not an abyss where there could be anything around the corner of the road with unknown intention.” Armitage smiles and wipes at his nose.

Clyde listens to the snow groan under the car as he waits for Armitage to fill the silence, but he doesn’t.

“That’s very poetic,” Clyde notes. “Had either of my siblings come out here they would have said ‘it’s white an’ it’s cold’.”

The sound that comes from Armitage is wet – like there is something stuck in his throat. Clyde doesn’t look, he doesn’t ask. He wants to, so so badly. He wants to put his arm around Armitage and kiss his cold skin. This miserable, lost man with frozen hands and a handsome face. This stranger. But what right does Clyde have? Armitage’s heart is with his husband, he is mourning. Clyde has no right to take advantage of his grief.

“Everything looks so much better like this, under the snow,” Armitage says as he draws circles on the milky glass. “You don’t need to be concerned about anything but what’s under your feet—“ He sighs and his knees shudder like he is swallowing on sudden pain. “I am sorry. I don’t usually speak so much. It’s a weird night.”

“Sure is. Feels like it was morning only a moment ago,” is all that Clyde manages.

The road is starting to widen, like a river opening onto a lake. There are no tracks in the snow that Clyde can see, no road signs or traces of traffic but a looming light that drains the shadows from the side of the road. The gas station feels like a outpost of humanity, a single marker that electricity and running water still passes under their feet.

The windows of the kiosk are clouded by frost and the door is shut by a drift of snow. The pipes rattle at the pump stands, tugged by the wind currents that pass under the roof. At the side of the gas station, out of the reach of light, lie shapes of junk, bent wire fences, and slanted dumpsters.

The car pulls fresh tracks through the snow as Clyde squints at the light. “I don’t remember this,” he says as he parks the car under the shelter of the gas station. “This isn’t—“ Clyde looks at the map stuffed between the seats and frowns.

“You should fill up the tank.” Clyde jerks around to look at Armitage. He looks paler in the light, with bruising rising up under his skin. It’s the heaviest around his eyes and lips. “It would be idiotic to run low on gas in this weather.”

The cold snaps over Clyde as the wind shuts the door behind him. He flinches and breathes out the warm air in his chest. The road is a tunnel of black with the white path disappearing once it is out of sight of the gas station. Flecks of snow drift in the light of the roof standing over the gas pumps, settling into the groves of the tire tracks.

Armitage’s shoulders are spasming as he walks to Clyde’s side of the car while he opens the petrol cap. He is shuffling and pressing his legs together, like he can keep any heat in the flimsy wind breaker and thin jeans. Clyde watches the colour drain on Armitage’s sallow face as the gas tank fills.

“You can take my coat,” Clyde tells him. “Here.” He avoids argument by tilting the gas pump toward Armitage and making him hold it as he shrugs off the large goose feather stuffed coat.

Armitage’s hands with the cracked red knuckles are spasming on the handle of the pump. His nose is shoved into the collar of his jacket as his hair pokes out in knots from under the paper thin hood.

Clyde jerks his hands to straighten out his coat before pulling it onto Armitage’s shoulders. It fits him in length, but not in width. Armitage mutters a ‘thank you’ while staring dumbly at his own hand on the gas pump.

The cover of the gas station creaks as the wind pushes against it, shifting the thin sheeting of the roof. Armitage steps to the side and slips as Clyde closes the cap of the tank.

There is a barely awake attendant in the kiosk snoring into the collar of his fleece sweater. Cheap Christmas decorations are dumped into a discount basket beside the counter with the gum racks. The storm is pushing on the walls, but it doesn’t disturb the attendant.

Clyde coughs several times and knocks on the counter before the man snorts into the collar of his sweater and looks up. Clyde pays for the gas while Armitage fiddles with the coffee machines at the side of the store. His hood has dropped down and the coat Clyde gave him droops from his shoulders like a cloak.

A coffee machine chokes and rattles as it starts to boil. Clyde looks over his shoulder while he waits for the receipt to be printed. A cold shudder freezes inside him when he sees Armitage staring at him through the store.

He is turning the cap of a coffee cup in his hands, cutting his fingers with the flimsy rim. His eyes drops over Clyde’s shoulders, to his chest, and torso. He is either tired or has no interest in subtlety; Armitage stares like he is choosing where to begin when he undresses Clyde. His pale eyes start to cloud again, slowly distancing from Clyde in his thoughts, like he has drifted to that variation of reality.

The shame is, Clyde might have let Armitage put his hands on him. On the back seat of the car with the windows in curtains of snow and the fog of condensation. He would like to feel Armitage’s fingers under his clothes, his cold pale palms pressed against his waist. But there is no urge that can overcome his guilt. Armitage is not right with himself, not with his scattered thoughts and feverish impulses. Clyde refuses to take advantage.

The door of the kiosk claps on Clyde’s heels and the wind picks through his layers of fleece and wool and zippers. From the doorstep, he looks ahead at the road as snow prickles his skin, catching in his hair and clothes.

Armitage would be fine here, he can even keep the coat. It’s warm enough inside the kiosk. He can call someone help him get back to the cabins. Clyde has done what he could, maybe too much.

Clyde steps out of the light of the windows and walks around to the restroom at the side of the building. The green painted door is almost gone in the snow and the lock is frozen. Clyde wraps his hand in the sleeve of his sweater as he pulls on the handle.

It takes him a moment to find a string for the light. It’s barely a room that closes with a sliding lock. There is a single stall, a waste basket full of damp tissue paper, a low sink with a mirror, and an empty soap dispenser. The pipes are tapping behind the ceiling tiles and the rough deep green lino is peeling away from the corners. Clyde’s heavy boots leave prints of snow as he walks toward the sink.

The cold water cuts his palm when he turns the faucet handle. He watches his hand start to shake and turn red around the knuckles with colour draining from the rest of the skin. He hisses when it gets too much and snatches back his hand, shaking his fingers of the water.

Some splatters reach the mirror. Clyde watches them slide down to the shell coloured wall and glass. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he looks. There is snow melting in his hair, in the threads of his sweater and on the collar. His face is sallow – almost grey – and the bruises under his eyes are so heavy it’s like he has been in a fight. He doesn’t mean to pout, or to frown, his face just droops once he stops paying attention and his hair falls forward. He looks pathetic, like a snot faced child.

Clyde’s prosthetic hangs dead at his side as he gathers the running water in his freezing palm, letting it drip back into the sink before taking another palm full and leaning down as he presses the water to his face. He winces from the sting and shakes his head like a dog. He can’t think of anything but the freezing water running down to his chin, to the collar of the sweater.

A knock shakes the hinges of the restroom door. Clyde turns away from the sink and watches the rattling handle. He can hear the timber tense and creak as the storm pushes inside and hands twist the door handle, pressing on the lock.

“Just a minute!” he calls out, hoping he can be heard over the wind.

Clyde wipes his face in the crook of his arm as the door continues to rattle. He breathes in the water droplets and coughs when he reaches for the lock and slides it aside.

The door is thrown inwards. The cold covers Clyde and pushes him back into the restroom. He braces as he falls against the back wall. There is breathing against the damp skin of his face, a laugh freezing the dew of water.

There is only a glimpse of pale eyes in bruised sockets before Clyde is taken into a kiss by cold lips. Hands with rough, scabbed fingertips take his jaw and pry open his mouth as Armitage kisses him. Clyde is like a dog as he follows Armitage’s lips, closing his eyes to feel the man lick his slack mouth. It’s almost surreal how it feels, how badly Clyde wants to keep the feeling of Armitage’s touch to himself.

With a damp sound of lips parting, Armitage is leaning away and Clyde is falling back, pressing against the wall. The hands on his face are freezing, tugging on his stubble and the damp curls of his hair around his ears. Armitage is saying nothing, just staring like he knows all there is to know and there is nothing for Clyde to do but take the feeling of Armitage against him.

Clyde squeezes his eyes shut as Armitage leans in and pulls aside the collar of his sweater as he kisses his neck. It’s soft and strange on his burning skin. Armitage’s breathing against his ear makes him buckle.

The zip of his sweater is being pulled down, ripping through the sound of lips moving on Clyde’s skin.

Clyde’s eyes lose focus as he stares at the door of the restroom. He shoves Armitage aside with force that makes him lose balance. Armitage’s back meets the corner of the stall and his head cracks on the laminated plywood. The stall shakes, but Armitage stands.

Clyde stares at the grained lino as he stumbles past Armitage toward the door out of the restroom. The handle slams against the wall and the door shakes on the hinges when the storm pushes Clyde back inside. His feet slip in the snow as he marches through the gas station half blind.

The passenger door of the car is open, there is snow on the seat. Clyde sits behind the wheel as wind sweeps in through the car. He is staring at the open door, breathing so hard his body shakes.

The pines are creaking around the gas station and the snow is tapping on the windshield. Clyde has closed his eyes as face is prickled by the cold of the frost bitten wind. His breathing is becoming deeper, slower.

Footsteps press through the snow. Clyde breathes out as he looks out from the corner of his eye. The backdrop of the forest seems void in the light of the gas station. Armitage is almost too stark, too bright as he stands beside the open door. His face and hair are covered by snow, the berth of his shoulders is rigid as he stares into the car.

Armitage doesn’t move when the wind passes underneath the cover of the gas station and pushes against him, pulling his clothes taut. Clyde can feel it rock the car as he turns up the heating.

“I’m sorry,” Clyde tells Armitage, “about what happened. I shouldn’t have— It was inappropriate of me.”

Armitage looks over the top of the car as Clyde stammers. His hands shift in the pockets of the coat Clyde has lent him, the loose change clinks over his fingers.

“It’s very cold, Clyde,” he says before looking down at the man behind the wheel, his pale eyes hazy.

Clyde looks down at his hands in his lap. “Come inside,” he says. “I think the storm is getting quieter. We should keep going.”

Snow drops in clumps onto the car floor. Armitage closes the door when he sits down and Clyde shivers. He throws the coat onto the backseat as the car turns onto the road, leaving the light of the gas station.

The woods open to them under the beams of the headlights. Clyde tries the radio again and drives to the static. Armitage leans back against his seat with a fist under his cheek.

There is a burn steeping at the back of Clyde throat. He can’t relax himself back into the seat as he holds the steering wheel with both hands. The joints of his neck creak when he shifts, blinking out the pulses of colour from his eyes that come with the static filling the car. He feels barely present in his own body, like he has taken the backseat while he stares out of the window – feeling only the aftershocks of what is happening.

The burn sticks as a lump in his throat and Clyde coughs. He chokes and swallows until he can breathe again. He switches off the radio.

He thinks he hears his own heaving until the drags of air don’t match the stutters of his chest. Clyde holds his breath as he listens to the hitched sounds that are barely restrained. He looks across the gap between the two front seats.

It’s almost unnoticeable – the twitching of Armitage’s shoulders as his hand covers his face. Light reflects on the snow and Clyde can see the damp tracking on to his chin and the dark spots on the front of his jacket. His mouth pinches and twists as he wipes at his eyes.

Clyde jerks in his seat when he sees the car drifting toward a snow bank. He rights it frantically and sits forward to watch the white road roll under the car. Clyde steals another glance toward Armitage, tensing as he sees him wipe at his face.

The car draws to the side of the road. Clyde turns off the engine and it taps and pops as it cools down. The seat belt is being torn out from the lock and Clyde is grabbed by the back of his neck. He can taste of salt in the air, the damp heat of Armitage’s face. Clyde is kissed, dragged forward by his hair.

The handbrake jams into his hip and Clyde grunts into Armitage’s mouth as he reaches up to cover the man’s cold cheek with his palm. Clyde is too warm and cold all over as Armitage steers his head to the side with clumps of hair in his fist and plants a bite to his neck. Clyde keens and shudders; his sense to stop and push Armitage away is gone as a hand presses between his legs – unapologetically palming crotch of his jeans. He jerks and his feet slip on the car floor. Armitage doesn’t allow him air as he drags Clyde into another kiss that fills his chest with hitched sounds.

Armitage bites more than he kisses, demands more than he asks. It’s like he wants to eat Clyde, keep him inside and to himself until his bones are filled out with satisfaction. But nothing he does can be enough, nothing he does can bring back the feeling of his love kissing him back. There is no point of Clyde feeling guilty; it’s not his fault. But he can do his best to fill the gap and pretend that Armitage isn’t imagining someone else.

There is a struggle of tug and pull as Armitage holds Clyde in place by his hair like a leash while he tries to move closer toward Armitage. Clyde almost climbs over the divide onto Armitage’s lap, but his seat jerks down as Armitage pulls the handle to lower it and Clyde falls onto his side.

“Get in the back,” Armitage tells him, already dragging Clyde to follow his direction.

They are lucky the car is large and it only takes a fumble for Clyde to climb onto the backseat. The car rocks as they shift – Armitage drops beside Clyde and pushes the front seat out of the recline. The air is stifling when Clyde is dragged onto Armitage’s lap – held down by his hips.

In his mind, Clyde pretends they are lovers that couldn’t wait to get back home when cold hands shove up his sweater and nails race across the skin. Armitage holds him by the chin as he chokes him with kisses, biting his lips and licking into his mouth. Maybe this is how Armitage had been some years ago, with his husband beside him, taking unapologetic pleasure.

Clyde is kept in place with hands behind the waistband of his jeans. He feels how hard Armitage is – like it wasn’t obvious by how he holds onto Clyde. He rocks his hips against the bony width of Armitage’s thighs, looking down at the space between them as Armitage jerks to meet the movement.

The snow pats on the glass of the windows, the car shifts on its frame. Armitage’s eyes are dreadful in the dull light echoing from the headlamps. They are too pale, too bright, like a high fever dream that Clyde can’t stop remembering. He leans down and kisses the bow of Armitage’s lips.

There is little control in their movements. It’s just wild desperation in a car that rocks with every shift of bodies and the passing wind, stuck on a snow coated road, miles away from a town or a city.

Clyde falls onto his side when Armitage shoves him and drags himself up across the seat on his elbows, watching Armitage climbing onto him. Clyde slips down the seat, bracing his feet against the door as Armitage yanks on his jeans. The belt and buttons dig into his stomach and the soft skin above his groin. Clyde manages to undo them before Armitage cuts him and chokes on his tongue when he feels his underwear being ripped down and a hand on his cock.

Armitage kisses him again, holding Clyde down by his throat with what he could try to recognise for tenderness. Clyde whines into Armitage’s mouth as he strokes his cock in the grip of his rough hand, letting him feel the callouses of his palm tease the tender skin.

Clyde almost jolts again when Armitage lets go and presses his hand into his jeans and between his thighs, spreading them apart, pulling the denim taut as he palms the curve of his ass. Clyde squeezes his legs around Armitage’s wrist and hears him laugh. His cock brushes on the sleeve of his jacket and the sensation of the cold is so absurd, he feels so naked, but Clyde can’t help wanting to open himself up to Armitage until he can see under his skin.

There is an involuntary roll of Clyde’s hips when he feels Armitage press on his hole with his fingertips. Armitage watches Clyde’s face as he teases him with the pressure, like he is threatening to press inside – dry and raw until Clyde is sobbing. He thinks that he would let Armitage do it; he is so drunk on the feeling of being touched under his clothes, being under Armitage’s attention and his control, that pain won’t matter.

Armitage is moving again, pulling his hands away from Clyde even as he tries to keep his wrist in place by squeezing his legs together. Armitage climbs over him on his knees until his thighs bracket Clyde’s head. His cheeks brush on the crumpled denim that pulls tight on Armitage’s thighs as he looks up at the man kneeling over him.

There is the rip of a zipper and a low grunt as Armitage reaches into his jeans. Clyde’s mouth is open before he knows it. He feels shame colour him as the head of Armitage’s cock presses onto his tongue. There is a hand in his hair and the weight of Armitage’s hips pushing him down into the seat, forcing him to choke when he swallows around Armitage’s cock. The girth fills out his mouth, pressing on his tongue and touching his throat. He tries not to bite or to breathe too harshly; he hasn’t done this in years, but the way Armitage watches him makes Clyde willing to try.

He wraps his arms around Armitage’s thighs as he hollows his cheeks and leans forward to swallow the last of Armitage’s cock. Clyde blushes at the grunt he hears as he works his lips around the cock in his mouth, letting Armitage thrust with rough jerks, making him gag and wheeze as he shuts his eyes to stop tears.

The wind is creaking in the cracks of the metal frame, condensation is rolling down the window, pearling on the glass. Armitage has one hand braced against the roof of the car and the other in Clyde’s hair. There is drool running down Clyde’s spread lips as he tries to take Armitage’s cock, lying back to let himself be used. He wants to put a hand down his jeans and fist his dick, stroke it as Armitage fucks his mouth. But he can’t let go of the weight of Armitage’s thighs.

They don’t speak, don’t try to coordinate this beyond desperate fucking. Clyde gulps the spit filling his mouth and snorts the mucus between the thrusts as he tries to accommodate Armitage’s cock, his nose almost meeting the rough hair of his crotch. Armitage’s head thuds on the glass of the window – he is breathing through his open mouth. Clyde squeezes Armitage’s thighs, reaching up to pull him closer by his ass with his spread palm and the prosthetic hand. His hair is twisted at the roots in response. Armitage is so cold all over, so brutally thin, but burning with unapologetic greed.

“Kylo—“ Armitage’s eyes are closed, squeezed from the view of Clyde underneath him. “Oh—Fuck—” He yanks Clyde by the fringe of his hair and slams his hips down.

It must be painful, how Clyde is squeezing Armitage’s ass. But he doesn’t seem to care as cum fills Clyde’s mouth. He chokes when his spit overfills and leaks from the corners of his lips. His eyes water and he can only swallow as Armitage pulls away.

He sits back on Clyde’s chest, wrapping his fingers in his damp hair, pulling it slowly. Clyde can’t catch his breath, let alone finish swallowing the cum in his mouth and on his lips. But Armitage is already kissing him, murmuring what a wonderful mouth he has, how soft his lips and tongue are. Clyde leans into those kisses, even when Armitage calls him ‘Kylo’.

Clyde sighs when Armitage climbs down him. He shoves his cock into his jeans as he sits on Clyde’s thighs. It’s too dark to see his face, too far to soothe out worry with a kiss.

The car shifts in the snow when Clyde jerks from the feeling of Armitage’s hands underneath his sweater, pressing on his stomach. He hisses through his teeth and covers his mouth with a damp hand when Armitage drops a kiss to the skin.

Clyde shifts his legs, pushing Armitage closer with his knees. He moans behind his hand when Armitage pulls his hand down toward Clyde’s cock. So close to touching him, but not giving him the satisfaction.

Armitage laughs. “Shh— Just keep lying there and looking pretty. You’ve always been best at that.” He wraps his fingers around Clyde’s cock and squeezes it, pulling his fist up, forcing friction with his dry palm that seems to be finally warming up.

Clyde can’t move much under Armitage’s weight, just twitch and shudder while Armitage squeezes his fingers and watches Clyde’s cock moves in his fist, dripping over his bruised knuckles. Clyde bites on the fingers of his prosthetic hand, breathing so heavily his nose burns.

Finally, Armitage leans down as he shifts the rhythm, making it impossible for Clyde to catch his breath as he pulls him by his hair into an open mouthed kiss. He licks Clyde’s teeth and tastes his tongue before bitting his lip – dragging it forward. Clyde keens and shivers; Armitage is starting to burn him with every press of skin.

It’s too much; the heat is making Clyde drowsy, deliriously with the burn of the hand on his cock that makes him move like he is hurting from inside. Armitage holds him down with a hand on his chest, fingers twisted in the collar of his t-shirt.

Clyde thinks his lip is bleeding, he isn’t sure, his head is pounding and everything feels too tight on his skin. He is so desperate to cum, to feel the ache of an orgasm, but Armitage is not letting him. He keeps just about enough slack in his hand, like he knows what he is doing to Clyde.

Clyde hisses when a tongue brushes on his ear, stinging him with the burning touch. His eyes are aching like he has had no sleep and then his head is drifting. Armitage’s hands are crawling over him, fingers pressing into Clyde’s mouth, trying to fuck him again.

Clyde tries to look at Armitage’s face, watch his milky eyes, but his sight swims. He groans, trying to shake the fog off his mind.

“Kylo,” Armitage whispers as he leans in, “My darling—“

There is a kiss smudged across the side of Clyde’s mouth. He turns to catch it properly, but his lips feel slack and he bites Armitage in his attempt to cling on.

The breathing burning on his cheek, the weight of a body leaning onto him, a hand on his cock squeezing tight enough to almost hurt. Clyde is delirious. He is staring at Armitage through the fuzzy distance, trying to follow the light on his face. He doesn’t notice when an orgasm ebbs through him; he is shaking with pins and needles becoming cuts of iron as Armitage kisses him, again, again, and again.

It’s becoming more difficult to breathe. Clyde’s limbs hurt; they feel like they are weight down by stone. His eyes can’t open, he can’t speak to respond to Armitage who is whispering against his ear.

The light is dimming, but it is enough to see the strange translucent pallor Armitage’s skin has taken and the tracks of dark veins on his temples and throat. He looks at Clyde and smiles, whispering the wrong name. The hands on Clyde’s face are so warm they burn with the cold.

 

 

 

Light melts through the snow on the windows. There is a far sound of branches creaking under the weight of the drifts, of animals passing through the forest.

Clyde only becomes conscious of the cold after he realises he is in the car. He is spread across the backseat, legs thrown out, arms around his head. He leans up to look over himself, barely feeling the creaking pain throughout his body, a fever sitting under his skin. His coat is thrown onto the floor and boot prints stain the door and seats.

A whoop of police sirens shrieks outside and dies. Clyde looks up at the clouded windshield. He can see the blinking stains of blue and red. Someone walks toward the car as Clyde wakes up squinting at the day light.

A radio crackles, carrying a voice so faint Clyde almost doesn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“ _Is_ _it_ _another_ _one_? _God_ , _please_ _tell_ _me_ _it’s_ not _another_ _one_.”

The car door handles are tested as the officer replies, “It’s almost like those two bastards from that winter cursed us, huh.”

Clyde stares at the ceiling of his car, refusing to feel the fever burn behind his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
